


About bloody time

by Coriesocks



Series: Witcher fics [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blow Jobs, But A Happy Open Ending, Come Eating, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Jaskier wants a turn with the Witcher, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Rough Kissing, Sort Of, a daring rescue, a hole in the ground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/Coriesocks
Summary: If Jaskier had known what would happen after Geralt rescued him, he might have thrown himself into a hole much sooner.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604476
Comments: 89
Kudos: 2483
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	About bloody time

Jaskier slowly opened his eyes and groaned. Even with the dank floor beneath him and the pervasive odour of neglect in the air, he’d still hoped that it had all been a bad dream. A nightmare brought on by a little too much local booze. But, no. He was very clearly still trapped. Still alone. 

With protesting muscles, he pushed himself up until he could lean back against the wall. He gazed up at the jagged hole in the ceiling through where he’d made his dramatic entrance to his current situation all those days ago. He still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, just that one minute he’d been drunkenly stumbling through the undergrowth, and the next, he was waking up sprawled on the floor of what he could only assume was an old abandoned cellar, and covered head to toe in debris. His clothes were ruined. That was yesterday—or earlier on today? Sometime last week? He had no idea. Time, he’d discovered, had very little meaning when one was stuck in a cold, damp box below the ground. The sky (what little he could see of it, anyway) looked dark now, so it must be night again. Either that or it was about to piss it down. He hoped it was the latter since his mouth was dry and his throat hoarse from yelling for help. And what pointless activity that had been—he’d not seen another soul since leaving the inn. 

The old trapdoor lay tantalisingly out of reach above the rotten remains of a wooden staircase and Jaskier considered getting up and trying again to find a way out, but his fingers were still sore from all his previous attempts at escape, and he reckoned it was unlikely he’d developed any new wall-climbing skills since then. So it looked like he would have to continue sitting alone, in the dark, waiting for death. At least he had his lute. He could pass the time until his demise composing epic ballads no one would ever hear. 

If only he’d not been so hot-headed that night. It was the drink; it had to have been. Something in that swill the inn had passed off as wine had sent him into a jealous tizzy. It wasn’t as if it was unusual for Geralt to get a little handsy with the serving girls or one of the many mysterious women from his past, but watching him act that way with a man—who, in Jaskier’s opinion, wasn’t worth even a first look, let alone a second—made something dark and ugly rise up inside him. He was all for Geralt finding temporary happiness wherever he wanted—who was he to say where the Witcher poked his sausage?—but it was hard not to feel just a little prickle of hurt when he never once looked to Jaskier for that kind of release. What was so wrong with him that Geralt never once cupped _his_ cheek, or whispered filthy promises into _his_ ear? Why did he never once give in to Jaskier’s flirting when they were alone together? It was enough to make a man doubt his own prowess.

Whatever the reason, Geralt’s blatant lack of interest that evening had struck him harder than usual, and Jaskier, sick of being ignored, had done the only rational thing he could think of at the time and stormed out of the inn. He’d not had a plan, other than that he needed to put some distance between himself and the Witcher before he did something ridiculous, like sob uncontrollably into his wine. And so, he’d crashed through the undergrowth, far too in his cups to be paying any attention to where he was going and half-hoping Geralt would notice and chase after him, until the ground had given way he’d awoken, sealed away in the dark and cold, a headache splitting his skull in two and lights dancing before his eyes.

Geralt hadn’t noticed or cared that he’d left, of course. He probably hadn’t even noticed Jaskier was missing. In fact, he was no doubt thrilled to have finally gotten rid of him. People often thought Jaskier oblivious and self-absorbed, but he was well aware that he irritated Geralt a lot of the time, and he’d known that it was only a matter of time before Geralt got shot of him for good. He was amazed it had taken him so long. 

He’d had a good run, he supposed. Had a lot of thrilling adventures, written many memorable songs that would ensure his name—and Geralt’s—would live on long after he died from starvation in this prison. Maybe someone would stumble across his body in a few months or years and give him a dignified send-off. Hopefully, there would be tears and an emotional retelling of his life’s journey. If only he had a pencil, he could record his last moments for posterity; a touching retelling of his terrible fate.

A sharp grunt sounded from somewhere above, disrupting Jaskier’s wallowing. Was it an animal? But no, he’d travelled with Geralt for long enough to recognise the unmistakable ring of a sword being unsheathed. Perhaps it was bandits. He shrunk back into the shadows and held his breath, straining his ears to see if he could work out what was going on. Gods, but he hoped whoever it was would finish him off quickly if they found him. He didn’t fancy being toyed with.

The night fell still once more. The only sounds the hissing of wind through the trees and a light patter of rain. Jaskier tensed, willing his racing heart to thud more quietly. He stared up at the jagged hole, searching for any glimpse of who or what was out there, but it was hard to make out anything in the dark beyond the roots obscuring the hole. But then something caught his eye—a shadow, a patch of night slightly darker than the surroundings, moving fluidly through the night, past the hole until it stopped, casting a shadow over the pale pool of moonlight on the cellar floor. Even though Jaskier couldn’t see a face, he had the sickening feeling that whatever it was had seen him. He bit back a gasp and edged further into the shadows, the damp, stone wall pressing uncomfortably into his spine.

There were footsteps. Quiet, just a crackle of leaf litter, the snap of a twig, but they were moving closer. There was a dull _thud thud thud_ as the person passed across the old trapdoor and scuffed to a halt. And then the trapdoor splintered inwards, shards of ancient, damp wood flying through the air. The sound of something solid and heavy hitting the compacted dirt floor. Jaskier threw himself into the corner and instinctively covered his face This was it. His life was over. He could only hope it was quick and relatively painless. Being cleaved in half would at least be quicker than starving to death.

But the expected slash never came. There was just silence, no more footsteps, no inhuman growls, no unsheathing of weapons… and then a huff of breath, a rough noise that sparked a glimmer of hope, a cold wash of disbelief passing over Jaskier because _it couldn’t be him_ and he risked a peek through his fingers... 

And there was the unmistakable silhouette of Geralt, framed by the jagged outline of the ruined trapdoor, darker than the night behind him. His eyes seemed to glow as he scanned the room. He shot out a hand and the single sconce on the wall burst into flame, casting dancing shadows over the cellar. Geralt stared down at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He was splattered with blood and gore, his silver hair matted from a gash on his forehead, but to Jaskier’s eye, he'd never looked more beautiful. His Witcher was here. Geralt had come for him!

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Geralt growled, covering the distance in two strides and crouching in front of him. His eyes darted over Jaskier’s body, searching, and Jaskier flinched back from the harsh scrutiny. 

“What?” he spluttered. Where was the concern? The joy at being reunited with his closest friend?

Geralt remained stony-faced and it suddenly occurred to Jaskier that perhaps the Witcher was a little pissed off. Why, though? It wasn’t as if he’d been the one stuck in a literal hell-hole. For all Geralt knew, he could have been kidnapped by bandits or a sect of evil mages who wanted to drain his essence and suck on his eyeballs. Why wasn’t Geralt more happy to see him?

“Hold on, you think I did this through choice? You think I strolled out of that inn, thinking ‘I know what, I’ll find myself a nice dirty hole to throw myself into,’ because I _wanted_ to ruin my clothes and die cold and alone? You think I _enjoy_ being trapped in a dank, filthy, cellar, left to rot for weeks on end—” 

“A day. Two if we’re being generous.”

 _Oh._ “Really? Are you sure it wasn’t a tad longer? Because I could have sworn…”

Geralt rolled his eyes—a small movement most would have missed—and reached forward, brushing some splinters from Jaskier’s hair. “You think you can walk if I help you out of here?” 

Jaskier nodded, even though he wasn’t exactly sure if that was the case. He’d been able to stand earlier, but the touch of Geralt’s fingers to his scalp, even through gloves, had turned his insides into a quivering mess.

“I didn't think you'd come,” he said as Geralt helped him to his feet and handed him a water bottle.

“Why would you think that?”

Jaskier took a long gulp of water, barely stifling a groan as the cool liquid wet his parched mouth. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, grimacing as the gritty texture reminded him how filthy his clothes were and how haggard he must look. “Well, you were pretty preoccupied with that… that dandy in the inn.” He pressed his lips together, willing his tongue to still before he revealed too much, but the words spilt out anyway. “And I know you’re not that fond of me,” he said recalling all the times Geralt had said as much. “You’ve told me enough times that you don’t want me around.”

“What are you talking about?'

“Just the other day, you told me if I didn’t stop singing, you'd chain me to a boulder and drop me into the nearest body of water. And I distinctly remember that time when you wished for me to be… what was it… _’taken off your hands’?_ ”

Geralt stared at him as if he’d dropped his trousers and bared his arse. And wasn’t that a thought… Jaskier shook himself to dislodge the inappropriate route his mind was wandering. 

“If I didn't want you around,” Geralt growled, “you wouldn’t be travelling with me. It’s as simple as that.” 

“Well, excuse me for getting the wrong end of your incredibly prickly, inhospitable stick.” Jaskier stepped back, bristling, only realising that Geralt had been holding his shoulder when the pleasant weight dropped away. 

And then, the meaning of his words sunk in. “So, wait... You _do_ want me around?”

Geralt folded his arms across his chest. He should, by all rights, look ridiculous—scowling at Jaskier with blood trickling down his face, hair half-pulled out of his hair tie, leather trousers smeared with dirt— 

A grin spread unbidden across Jaskier’s face. “You _do_ like me! You pretend you can’t stand me, but it’s all a front!'

“Don’t push it. I can just as easily change my mind.”

“Nope! No backsies. You love having me around _and_ you love my singing! I can’t wait for more adventures. We’ll be an unstoppable duo—you with your gruff, fighty, manly thing, me with the dashing good looks and rapier wit. I can see it now: Jaskier and Geralt. The plucky bard and his pet Witcher. Monsters and bandits, evil witches and corrupt mages. All of them will tremble at the mere mention of our names—”

“Shut up.”

“Hmm, no. I don't think I will. I've been caged like a dog for months—”

“A day.”

“—and you've finally admitted you enjoy my company, so nothing you say can diminish this moment for me. In fact, I think I feel a song brewing—' He settled his lute in his arms and started plucking a simple riff. “The Witcher and his bard— _Mmph!”_

Jaskier jerked back as Geralt’s face was suddenly right there. He was so close, Jaskier could feel the roughness of his beard, the press of his lips and— wait, was Geralt _kissing_ him? Shit. Geralt was kissing him! Jaskier’s brain ground to a halt. He knew he should probably kiss back or do _something_ rather than stand motionless with his lute clutched protectively to his chest, but before he could convince his body to respond in any sensible way, Geralt was pulling back.

“Oh.” Jaskier touched two fingers to his lips. “Oh. That was… was... unexpected.” 

Geralt grunted something unintelligible and dragged a gloved hand across his face, smearing blood over his cheek. If it’d been anyone else, Jaskier would have said he looked embarrassed, but as it was Geralt, he just looked mildly constipated, his eyes flitting shiftily around the dingy room. 

“We should go,” Geralt muttered, putting more distance between them as he turned his attention to the rotten staircase, kicking one of the old balusters.

Shit. Jaskier couldn’t let him leave without finding out what the hell that was. Why had Geralt kissed him? Was it even a kiss? He really hoped he hadn’t imagined it because if there was any chance… “Wait!” he yelled, lurching forward and grabbing Geralt’s arm. “Was that… Is this something we do now?”

Geralt made an annoyed sound in his throat but he didn’t shake off Jaskier’s hand. “You wouldn't shut up.”

What did that even mean? Was this a thing Geralt did normally, and he’d just not noticed? “I see… Makes… perfect sense. Yes.” He chewed his bottom lip. Now or never. “Um, can we, perhaps, try it again? Only, you took me by surprise and I want to properly enjoy the experience. You know, in case it turns out to be the only time we… Well. You get the idea.” Carefully, he set down his lute and stepped back into Geralt’s space, resting one hand on his chest plate. The stiff, leather armour was tacky with what Jaskier hoped was just blood, but Geralt felt strong and alive and very, very real beneath it.

Before he could object, Jaskier leant in, eyes fluttering shut, and captured Geralt’s lips in a soft, hesitant kiss. It definitely wasn’t his best work—unsurprisingly, it was hard to focus when he half-expected to be run through with a sword—but with that simple action, he tried to convey just how much of himself he was willing to give. After one brief, heart-stopping moment when Geralt tensed, it was like a switch had been flipped. The Witcher let out a guttural sound and surged toward him crowding him against the wall, sucking bruising kisses along his jaw and down to the tender skin of his neck. 

His hands quickly found Jaskier’s wrists and callused palms encircled them, yanking Jaskier up onto his toes and pinning him to the wall. Groaning at the unexpected thrill of being so roughly handled, Jaskier tilted his head to give Geralt better access. _Fuck._ He could barely think. He wasn’t unfamiliar with having a man’s body pressed against him—male, female, he wasn’t fussy as long as everyone was having a good time—but Geralt was so much more. His scent filled Jaskier’s nose; heady, musky. He smelled like death and hope and everything Jaskier had craved on a deep, primal level for… far too long to consider. He had wanted this for so long, a part of him still couldn’t believe it was happening.

Geralt rutted against him as he continued to assault Jaskier’s neck, his arousal obvious, and Jaskier could only writhe pathetically, trying to chase the friction; to give something back. He wanted to drag his hands through his Witcher’s hair, to feel the raw strength in his shoulders, feel the muscles shifting beneath his fingers. He strained against the hold Geralt had on his wrists, but it was no use. He should have felt scared, maybe, but he trusted Geralt with his whole being and knowing that he could easily crush him, while at the same time being sure that he wouldn’t, made Jaskier yearn for even more. He felt powerful, and yet also like he’d do anything Geralt asked. His body was on fire with the need to get closer. He could feel Geralt’s straining erection pressing against his own and he just wanted more, closer, harder. Fuck. The way things were going, he was going to come in his britches before Geralt had laid one hand on his cock. He’d never live it down. _Shit._

As if sensing his desperation, Geralt’s slid one hand down Jaskier’s chest and around to his hip, grabbing a handful of his arse and tugging him even closer, grinding against him with renewed fervour. 

“Oh god, oh god, wait.” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut. “For the love of— I’m not going to last.” 

Geralt stilled, but he didn’t move away. “I expected a man with your reputation to have more… stamina,” he replied, his voice a low rumble Jaskier felt through his whole body. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Jaskier huffed, hooking a leg around Geralt to keep him close 

Teeth grazed across Jaskier’s skin as Geralt slowly nipped his way back to Jaskier’s mouth. “Is this okay?” he asked flicking open the top button of Jaskier’s trousers. “Do you want me to stop?” He undid the second button.

“Yes, totally okay. And if you stop now, I’ll—” Another button. An embarrassingly pathetic whimper slipped out of Jaskier’s mouth. He took a breath, tried to focus his thoughts. “If you stop now, I’ll… I’ll have to use that sword you love so much to cut off your balls.”

Geralt chuckled lowly. “I’d like to see you try, bard.” He flicked open the remaining buttons. 

Jaskier’s loose trousers slipped the floor with a soft whisper, exposing his length to the cool, damp air of the cellar. He tried not to squirm as Geralt’s gaze drifted lazily down his body, coming to halt on his cock, the flushed head wet with precome.

“Are you losing your nerve, old man?” Jaskier baited, jerking his hips forward.

One corner of Geralt’s lips quirked up, a lascivious smirk that shot straight to Jaskier’s groin. And then he was on him; hand wrapped around Jaskier’s length, his grip confident, skilled, and Jaskier thrust eagerly into the circle of his fist.

“Fuck.” He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and buried his face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, centring himself. The leather armour was unforgiving beneath his fingertips and it felt wrong, all of a sudden, to be so distant. He’d seen so much of Geralt already, soothed his wounds with ointment and balms, massaged sore muscles, but now… now he had the opportunity to fully explore with fingers and tongue and he refused to waste it. “This has to go,” he muttered, blindly attacking the buckles and straps with trembling fingers, silently grateful for all the practise he’d had from helping to dress Geralt.

Freed from his armour, Geralt shrugged the chest plate off, kicking it to the corner as it hit the floor. His eyes darkened as they lit once again upon Jaskier’s cock and he tugged his shirt and undershirt off over his head in one fluid motion before growling and surging forward; clever tongue and roaming hands quickly reducing Jaskier to mush. He came all over Geralt’s closed fist only minutes later, muffling his cries on Geralt’s shoulder. 

Geralt released him and Jaskier fell bonelessly back against the wall feeling deliciously fuzzy and sated. The air around them felt thick enough to support him, and he inhaled the musky, masculine scent, arousal slowly ebbing away to be replaced by a deep, warming satisfaction. A quick hand job in a cellar was hardly the most raunchy thing he’d ever done—it’d barely scrape the top twenty…thirty…?—but as Geralt’s eyes trailed over him, glowing like the dying embers of a fire, he felt incredibly debauched.

Jaskier huffed lightly, amused at himself. “You’ve done me in.” 

Geralt smirked, slow and lazy, then brought his soiled hand to his mouth, licking it clean of Jaskier’s release without breaking eye contact. 

“Fucking hell…” If he was only a few years younger… He’d never felt so wrung out, so drunk, so delirious, after sex. He wasn’t sure how he was still standing—by all rights he should be a boneless heap on the floor. If it wasn’t Geralt’s hungry gaze pinning him in place— 

Oh, shit, Geralt. 

“Sorry, let me sort you out,” he offered, his voice rougher than he’d intended.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t need to be chivalrous around me,” Jaskier said, smirking. He curled his fingers around Geralt’s hips and turned them until Geralt was the one pressed against the wall, Jaskier standing in front of him. “Never let it be said that I don’t pull my weight around here.” He sunk to his knees and ran his hands over the smooth leather covering Geralt’s thighs. He could see Geralt’s length straining against his fly and his chest fluttered with anticipation. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen Geralt’s cock—they’d bathed, dressed, and slept in the same room on numerous occasions—but it was the first time he’d seen it erect, and certainly the closest he’d ever knowingly been to it. He leant closer and dragged his mouth along the hard ridge, imagining what it would be like to finally get his mouth around it. He was big, that much was obvious, but not impossibly so. 

With confidence he certainly didn’t feel inside, Jaskier carefully undid Geralt’s trousers, as slow and teasing as he dared, enjoying the way Geralt’s gaze bored into the top of his head.

“Are you losing your nerve?” Geralt said, tossing his words from earlier back at him. 

Jaskier cast his eyes up, meeting Geralt’s hooded gaze. He was leaning lazily back against the wall, his mouth hanging slightly open, staring at Jaskier with such unconcealed hunger, such want, that Jaskier’s spent cock twitched with renewed interest. Fuck, but he’d be reliving this moment for years. 

Geralt cupped the back of his head, guiding him closer and Jaskier eagerly took his first taste, dragging the tip of his tongue along the length of his shaft. He circled the head until it glistened in the torchlight, delighting in the salty tang of precome because _he did this._ He was the reason Geralt’s thighs were twitching, why his cock was jutting out from the thatch of white hair at his groin, why he kept uttering such delicious, breathy sounds every time Jaskier flicked his tongue just so. It had been a while since his last time doing this—and the last guy was nothing on Geralt—but it wasn’t a skill one forgot, and, well, it wasn’t just for his way with words that he had reputation. 

When Geralt’s hand tightened in his hair, he stopped the teasing and got to work, sucking, licking, swallowing Geralt down until his nose brushed coarse hair, one hand clamped on Geralt’s hip, the other slipping into the darkness between his legs. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped, curling in on himself and tugging on Jaskier’s hair. “Oh, fuck. My bard. My Jaskier.” Which was all the warning he got before Geralt came, pulsing hotly into Jaskier’s mouth. 

He’d remember the sound of his name on Geralt’s lips until he died. 

———

“No more running off and getting yourself trapped.” Geralt said, grabbing his shirt off the floor. He glared at Jaskier to underscore his point, but Jaskier was far too relaxed to rise to any of his ridiculousness now.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m hardly eager to repeat the experience, but it’s not like I actively sought it out. In fact, before I met you, my life was positively humdrum with its distinct lack of mortal peril. These days, though, I can barely set foot outside my lodgings before danger or some other horror befalls me.”

“Jaskier.”

“Fine. I promise to _try_ and not accidentally fall in a hole in the future. But you have to promise to… to not make me need to run off in the first place.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jaskier couldn’t tell if Geralt was being deliberately obtuse, but he decided to drop it. He didn’t want to ruin his good mood by bringing up the childish strop that had started all of this. 

“Nothing. Nevermind.” He ignored Geralt’s narrowed eyes and picked up his lute, slinging it over one shoulder. “So, what’s next? I feel about ready for another adventure, don’t you? I hear Oxenfurt is delightful at this time of year.”

Geralt glared at him. "We should probably get you to a healer before we do anything too strenuous.”

“Why? ...oh! The whole falling in a hole thing. Sure. Okay. But then Oxenfurt?”

“Sure, whatever you desire, bard.” 

The sky was a deep orange as they clambered out of the hole—a task that Geralt had made look embarrassingly easy—and Jaskier sucked in a lungful of fresh clean air. It felt like he’d been trapped for weeks—which was definitely the time frame he’d be using in the ballad he would compose about this—and their emergence from beneath the ground felt like some sort of cheesy metaphor for the birth of the new chapter in their relationship. He wasn’t sure how exactly things would change between them, but he was excited to find out. Even if it turned out to be a one-time thing, at least he knew that he could, and he _had._ And, most importantly, he had enough material stored in his head to while away many a boring evening alone. He swung his lute around to his chest and absently let his fingers dance over the strings, new lyrics about the daring adventures of the dashing bard and his pet Witcher spilling from his lips. 

Geralt grumbled under his breath but didn't tell him to shut up. Instead, he urged Roach onwards with a sharp click of this tongue, not waiting to see if Jaskier was keeping up, but he wasn’t quick enough for Jaskier to miss the way the corners of his mouth twitched up in a poorly suppressed smile. 

Whatever happened next, Jaskier had no doubt it would be a lot of fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/coriesocks) @coriesocks <3


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